Delivery
by Greenkey2
Summary: A convoy of delivery drivers get more than they bargained for when they, and their mysterious cargo, arrive at the Strahov in Prague.


© Jennifer R. Milward 2007

This story is a work of fiction. Lara Croft, her likeness, and the Tomb Raider games are all copyright of EIDOS Interactive. There is no challenge to these copyrights intended by this story, as it is a non-sanctioned, unofficial work of the author's own.

Delivery

Ivan peered through the windshield, cursing his lack of sleep that blurred the vision ahead. He barely registered the sign as it flashed past, swallowed by the darkness and the storm.

_Prague __1__3km_

"You awake?"

Sven's snore broke off in a fit of coughing. He fished around in his anorak, took a swig from the flask to clear his throat and blinked puffy red eyes at his driver.

"I am now. Where the hell are we?"

"Probably," Ivan agreed gruffly. "Not far. Wake the others. The sooner this is done the better."

The truck lurched as Sven climbed through to the back. Snow was flying thickly in the headlamps, swirling in a way that made Ivan think he was driving them down a never-ending tunnel - a wormhole into arctic hell. They'd been driving this godforsaken convoy for four solid days. The men had taken it in shifts at the wheel, but even so Ivan had been sat in the driving seat of the leading truck for over five hours. His back ached, as though demons were playing tug o' war with his spinal cord. The joints in his hands, firmly clutching the steering wheel, were numb with cold despite the heater being turned up to full blast.

"All's good," Sven growled, shuffling back into his seat. He peered through the side mirror. "Pieter's boys're still there too."

"They'd better bloody be," Ivan snapped. "I ain't gonna be the one explaining why our cargo's late."

The radio crackled, garbling something in Czech. Taking the receiver in one gloved hand, Sven barked back a reply.

"What'd he say?"

The dour old Slovak chuckled, "Welcome to the glorious city of Prague. Our escort will be with you shortly, courtesy of our host, Joachim Karel of the Strahov. Have a bloody good day."

"Finally someone with a sense of humour," Ivan yawned. "God I can't wait to get back. This damn thing's freaked me out for way too long."

"Ten of us start out, six of us finish," Sven muttered, shaking his head, avoiding the driver's eye. "This whole smuck is cursed. I gotta tell ya… I've been feeling like… like it's _watching_ us… you know?"

"Don't," Ivan shivered. The snow had lessened to a damp sleet, fighting a losing battle with the wiper blades. It was past 3am, and even as they approached the warehouses on the city's outskirts they practically had the road to themselves. "We just drive up, drop off, sign anything boss _tells_ us to sign and we're out of here. I want to get some miles between us and…_ it_… before I find us someplace to stay."

"Then you… you think Juraj was right?"

"About what?"

Sven shifted, wrapping himself more tightly in his coat. "Dreams. Said he started hearing voices. Just before we left Kazanlŭk. He wouldn't sleep for fear of 'em. I gotta say… I'm startin' to feel that way myself."

"Damn you Sven, stay with me!" Ivan hissed, a frisson of fear shivering through his heart. "I need you focused! Who's gonna take over at the wheel next leg eh?"

Unvoiced but obvious to both men was the same thought: _and who will have to tell your family how you died? Who's gonna have to be the one to break the news the lad hanged his bleeding corpse after riding shotgun for two hours next to that unholy __stone coffin__? _

"Escort's here."

The chug-chug of diesel engines rumbled up alongside them. Through the driver's window, Ivan flashed a thumbs-up to the armoured car. Even through the murk he could see its hatches bristled with weapon muzzles. He was surprised to look across and see another drawing up on the right side, and several more take up flanking positions down the whole convoy.

"Takin' security a bit tight ain't they?" he muttered. A horn blared, and yet another van swerved in front of him, boxing them in. He stamped on the brakes, swearing in his native Polish. "Hey, hey! We're comin', we're comin'!"

The radio growled again - a new voice, deep and clipped, snarling orders.

"_Maintain your speed. Repeat, maintain your speed_. _Do not attempt to leave the convoy_"

"Better listen to 'em," Sven grumbled, taking another reassuring sip from his flask.

"You better save me some o' that," Ivan cursed under his breath. He definitely felt in need of some Dutch courage as the escort vehicles steered them down side streets, past industrial complexes and down along the river. At last a series of warehouses, black against the orange-tinted sky, loomed out of the snowstorm.

"I don't like this," Sven murmured. Motorcycles zoomed around the convoy's perimeter, circling like sharks. "I don't like this."

"Shut up!" Ivan fought down the urge to shake his friend by the lapels. "Not long now."

A lion-head motif suddenly reared out of the dark. The trucks slowed, turning into a forecourt bright under halogen arc lights. The colour of old blood, the lion snarled a warning from the warehouse's entrance, and gradually rolled up as the doors lifted on powerful hydraulics. The screech of metal on metal set Ivan's gold fillings trembling.

A figure guided the lead truck to the side, allowing the cargo-van room to reverse. It backed up through the doors - its siren beeping a two-tone warning to bystanders. From his seat, it looked to Ivan like a sacrificial offering being pushed gingerly into a dragon's lair, everyone holding their breath, praying the beast was sleeping.

A fist rapped on his door. He pulled on the handbrake, killed the ignition. The man wore a balaclava that completely hid his features, except for his eyes. They glared cruel and black as the man shouted orders at him.

"Sorry, I don't speak Czech," Ivan tried explaining. Cautiously, he swung down and landed in snow a foot deep. It soaked through his trousers, chilling as the man lifted a firearm, motioning towards the warehouse.

"I'm sorry I don't understand you…" he stuttered, glancing back. Sven was also standing in the snow, his shoulders turning steadily whiter as he argued with another of the warehouse guards. "Talk to him, he can-"

"Gentlemen! May I have your attention!"

Delighted to hear a language he understood, Ivan turned to see a pair of figures coming towards him. The speaker, an unremarkable, pinched-faced man dressed in sombre black, with a crimson scarf his only concession against the freezing weather, smiled benevolently. His companion, easily a head taller and twice as broad, regarded the assembled drivers with disdain written in every line of his scarred face.

"Thank you gentlemen! I trust you had a good journey?" the black-clad speaker inquired. He raised an eyebrow as his men ransacked the trucks; satisfaction glinted in his eyes as they gave an affirmative wave on uncovering Ivan's cargo. Soon the tarpaulins were being pulled off and heavy-lifting equipment lumbered into view, making haste to get the granite sarcophagus indoors. "Long way to travel… You _are_ a day late though. Anyone care to explain?"

Before Ivan could speak up the other foreman, Pieter, had stomped forward; anger rising of him like clouds of steam.

"_I'll_ give you a reason mister!" he snarled. "Having to find a morgue that'd take in four o' my men along the way! Four good men suffering accidents in one trip ain't my idea of coincidence, got that? This damn cargo of yours has cost us _lives_! What'd you say to that?"

"I'd say you were overcharged," the pale man sneered, all civility vanishing like a snowflake on a bonfire. "A shame. I _had_ hoped to get more information from you but since you're feeling so… _disinclined__…_ to chat we'll have to speed things up," he sighed. "At least Boaz should be pleased. Gunderson?"

Without a backwards glance he turned on his heel and strode back inside. Ivan's heart seemed to lodge inside his throat as the goliath leader made a swift gesture. Instantly guns surrounded the six drivers, safeties clicking off like giant beetles clicking their mandibles in anticipation of a juicy meal. Helpless, they were herded inside the warehouse like so much cattle being driven to the slaughter.

Tripping over his feet and the rails laid into the concrete floor, Ivan found himself gabbling along with his friends. Their demands and pleaded cries were met with silence - the masks of their captors utterly without emotion or humanity.

A cloying smell filled his nose. He had already taken several breaths before he realised what it was, fighting the overwhelming urge to retch. Several others had already fallen when he tumbled to his knees, clutching his throat, the dispassionate eyes of Gunderson watching him through the distorted lenses of a gas-mask.

_Please God__,__ let it be quick_, was his last thought, already knowing it was a false hope.

The doors rolled closed with a clang.

Its appetite sated, the Strahov dragon licked its jaws, curled up and went back to sleep.


End file.
